Rage Against the Dying of the Light
by Hyrde
Summary: "Happiness is such a difficult thing to describe," said Renee, ignoring his last remark. "Maybe that's why fairy tales just end with the old cliché of living happily ever after. It's so much easier to visualize tragedy than happiness." AU (Sequel to 'Nothing Left')


Rage Against the Dying of the Light

As Dean stared up longingly at Renee's window, his cell phone rang and he quickly answered it when he saw that it was Seth.

"Man, I'm starving. Are you starving?" asked Seth as a way of greeting. "The guys are coming over to our place for pizza and beer tonight. You in?"

"Sounds good, I'll see you in about half an hour," agreed Dean. He didn't really know Seth's roommate, John Cena that well but he was hungry and it had been awhile since he had hung out with Seth.

So he found himself that night squeezed into a tiny apartment with five other guys, eating through six large pizza pies, drinking Yuenglings and watching 'District 9'. Seth and John's miniscule living room, like any bachelor pad, was more interesting than orderly. The central point of the room was a huge pegboard, which they had mounted on the wall. Displayed there on hooks were all types of weapons – numchucks, throwing stars, and various kinds of swords.

After the movie was over, John's friends departed for the night but Dean sat up with Seth and John, talking about martial arts. While he knew Seth was into it, he didn't know that John had also studied extensively. Seth specialized in aikido, a more modern "soft-technique" Japanese art, while John had a black belt in shorinji kempo, which he explained was a specialized form of karate.

"You've never done any martial arts training yourself?" John asked.

Dean shrugged, sitting back in his chair. "No. First, I never had the interest, then I didn't have the opportunity, and now, again, I don't have the interest. I can handle a switchblade fairly well, and a gun. But I don't enjoy it."

"Do you own a gun?"

For an answer, Dean pulled the small pistol from his chest holster and tossed it into John's lap. John picked it up and examined it.

"This is a good piece," he said reflectively. "Hate to say this, but is this weapon registered?"

"It's registered," Dean said, pulling out his wallet. "I'm licensed to carry a gun in both Pennsylvania and New York." He showed John his ID.

"I didn't know you could carry a concealed weapon on you, legally," John said.

"Sure you can, if you're willing to submit to registration," Dean said. "There are some places where it's illegal – like in a medical facility or a courtroom – but there are a lot of places you can carry one."

"But you said you don't enjoy using it," John pointed out.

"No," said Dean. "I carry it for protection – I lived in downtown Pittsburgh till recently – and because I know how to use it. But I wish it weren't necessary."

"It's an ugly modern weapon," John agreed. "Not like a sword."

Seth nodded. "The essence of the warrior code is actually found in the sword."

"Seth, show him your katana," John urged.

Seth didn't need much encouragement. He pulled a case out from under his bed and unclasped it. Inside was a silver sword with a carved ivory handle.

"This is the weapon of the samurai," Seth said. "It's usually paired with the tanto, a smaller dagger used for the kill stroke, and a wakizashi, which is a medium length sword. But I don't have those yet."

He pulled out another sword in a black leather case. "This is a ninja sword. You'll notice it's straight, like a Western sword, also shorter, but with a tapered end on one side. It's meant to be strapped on the back and drawn by putting your arm over your head."

He pulled out the blade and handed it to Dean, who looked along its sharp edge, half wondering, half skeptical.

"Do you actually use this?" Dean asked.

Seth nodded. "But not for combat – far too lethal. That's where we use wooden swords." He ran his finger down the dull side of the blade. "Also because a sword nicks easily, and the oriental swords are so thin they can break. We usually use them for doing things like slashing through two-liter bottles filled with water. It's pretty neat. Then there's kata – those are exercises you do alone with the sword to improve your accuracy and technique. John and I both do those, but alone. I don't think we've ever dueled with the Oriental weapons, at least not the real ones."

John nodded. "It would be too easy to do serious damage to each other," he said.

"So you practice with all these weapons you actually never use?" Dean asked, a bit cynically.

"I think of it as the way I look at manhood," John said. "Being prepared. To protect the innocent, defend the common good. It's not just weapons, you know. It's the skill needed to handle them. It's almost a mental attitude."

"As well as a physical capability," Seth said, sheathing his katana.

Dean slid the ninja sword back into its sheath, and couldn't help noticing how smoothly the metal slid into the case.

"Have you seen my Claymore?" John asked as he got his sword out of its place in the corner. "It was too heavy to hang on the wall."

He handed the weapon to Dean, a long silver blade with a carved pommel, almost three feet long and very heavy. "It's a Scottish two-handed sword. More like a club with sharp edges. You could do some serious damage with it."

Dean heaved up the sword with a grunt and agreed. "Impressive."

"But this is my combat sword," John said, pulling out a silver sword from an ornate leather sheath that hung by the dining room table. "It's a one-handed sword."

He handed it to Dean. "Test its balance," John urged. "This isn't one of those cheap fantasy swords you get at reenactments. This one was hand-forged by this company in New York. Can you tell? Each one is unique."

Dean hefted the blade in his hand. "You've got to have a lot of muscle strength to wield this," he remarked.

"It's made to fit me," John said, a bit proudly. He looked at Seth. "Let him try one of yours. You're more his size."

Seth reached up to his weapons wall and pulled down another broadsword, this one lighter. Dean weighed this one in his hands.

"That fits in your hand better," Seth said.

"It does," Dean admitted, turning it around so that light caught its surface and its keen blade.

"Want to try it sometime?" John asked.

"All right," said Dean intrigued.

"How about you spend the night and you guys can go at it tomorrow morning?" suggested Seth.

"I have to leave early," Dean said.

John smiled. "Don't worry. I'll get you up earlier."

* * *

Renee sighed deeply as she closed the door to her apartment and couldn't keep the thoughts of a certain Dean Ambrose out of her head. _I love him more than poetry. I love him more than song._

It sounded promising, like the beginning of a ballad that would soar up into the crazy blue sky. Renee sighed again as she plopped down onto her bed, staring at the ceiling and running her fingers through her blonde hair, letting it float back down onto the pillow. It did sound terribly romantic.

"The only problem," she said to herself as she rolled over onto her stomach, "is that the man I love is the most unromantic creature who ever opened a book." However, the mere thought of him was enough to bring a bright smile to her face and a bounce to her step.

Renee groaned and hid her face in a pillow. _I've got it so bad. _She heaved yet another sigh as she got up to open the rickety closet door and proceeded to get ready for bed.

"What is wrong with me?" she moaned, pulling her pajamas on. "There are billions of men in the world, at least millions who are near my age, maybe hundreds who are compatible with me. Maybe at least a dozen who would want to date me. There's got to be at least five on the continent whom I could probably marry. So why in the world am I so hung up about this one guy? And he doesn't even like you, Renee Young."

The lecture had as little effect on her as it usually did.

"Maybe I should start saying 'yes' to some blind dates that my friends keep wanting to set me up on," she told herself as she set her alarm clock. _Or not_, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning Dean was shaken awake from his makeshift bed on the floor before, it seemed, the sun was up. Blinking, he got up in the foggy gray light to find John tossing a hooded heavy sweatshirt and gloves to him.

"Get dressed and come on," he said.

Outside, John climbed the wet hillside to the soccer field beyond the dorms. He was carrying three swords in his hands, two wooden and one metal. "Right," he said when they reached the top. "Here's how we start."

For the next half hour Dean found himself standing in a dew-drenched field, wielding a heavy sword and attempting to learn how to use it.

John demonstrated and gave constant instructions. "First – holding the sword. Most people try to hold a sword like a baseball bat. You can't choke up on it, and with this kind of sword, you're supposed to use only one hand." He demonstrated with the wooden sword. "Got a grip? Right. Now – stance. Unlike in Eastern disciplines, it really doesn't matter how you put your feet, so long as you've got them firmly under you. Don't hold it too close to your body, or you can't move it, but don't hold it too far out, or you can't defend yourself. That's it. Right about there."

He led Dean through a series of strokes – the overhand strike, the underhand strike, and various kinds of blocks.

"Good," John said, tossing him a wooden sword. "Now, if you want to try some actual combat, take this, and we'll have a go."

Dean handed the metal sword back, and John sheathed it and took up his own wooden sword. "Now, hit me," the stocky guy said.

"How? Where?" Dean said warily.

"The goal is to touch me with your sword. Anywhere on my body. And to stop me from touching you. Use the techniques I just showed you."

The wooden sword was still heavy in his hand, though he could tell it was definitely a safer weapon. He was a bit uncertain, but at last he lunged forward for John, who moved aside and brought his sword down towards him. Dean remembered to block it in time, and then tried again.

"Don't expose your hands," John warned. "When you turned your sword like that – see? – I can slash your hands like this." He demonstrated. "Keep it turned so I can't do that. Again."

It was, as Dean had expected, more difficult to touch John with the sword than it looked. At one point he feinted at John and then lifted up his arm to lunge down, and John swiftly poked him in the armpit.

"Aha!" he said. "You were open. Watch yourself there! Most vulnerable part of the person is under the arm, because there's never armor there."

Dean gritted his teeth but gamely went for him again.

"Not too close to me," John warned him. "Too close means you can't maneuver either. Back me up, yes, but don't get into my personal space or you'll be at a disadvantage."

Dean found soon that he did better if he kept his eyes fixed on John's sword arm. To look anywhere else was a distraction. He concentrated and finally, after fifteen minutes and surviving three more smacks by John, he landed a blow on John's arm.

"Good, very good," John said appreciatively. "Take a break?"

They were both panting, but not winded. Dean nodded, and they rested.

"You'll notice sword fighting is actually very simple," John said. "Much simpler than weaponless combat. In weaponless combat, you've got to be aware of both your opponent's hands and feet at all times. Here, you only have to watch the sword."

"A lot like gun fighting, only closer-range," Dean said.

"Yes, there are similarities. You're good, Dean. Fairly quick on your feet, but in this form of combat, that's not an advantage unless you can back it up with strength. I would highly recommend martial arts for that."

"Like I said, not interested," Dean said, catching his breath.

"Why not?"

"Never had a desire to go looking for trouble," Dean said with a wry smile. "In my experience, trouble has always had to come looking for me." He looked at the sun-infused clouds on the horizon. "I don't know if Seth ever told you about me."

"I think I've heard the basic story, yes."

"Then you know I was in prison, and that's where I was taught how to fight. Basic survival techniques, learned by necessity. I learned to shoot when I was living on the streets and needed to defend myself against guys who were bigger than I was. It wasn't exactly a fulfilling experience. Now, I'm in school like most normal guys, and I prefer it to battle any day. The ivory tower really appeals to me."

"Well, that's understandable, given your circumstances. I suppose the rest of us must seem awful facile, getting all excited about battles and swordfights, when none of us has ever been in a real fight for our lives," John said reflectively.

"No, I can understand it," Dean said. "I was ready to take on the world once. I was full of life and idealistic back when I was a kid, wanting to take on all the evil in the world and stand up for the weak and innocent. That's how you guys are – all pumped up with energy and optimism. That's great to see. I wouldn't want you to trade places with me for any reason."

"Because you've seen too much?" John suggested.

Dean shrugged. "I just got too hurt and got too tired. You hear people say 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger?' Not true. Sometimes it makes you weaker. I still have ideals, but I struggle at times to believe that anything I can do would make a significant difference against all the evil that's out there." He stretched. "So I've stopped looking for trouble. I'm trying to get my degree, get a job, do my research in my corner of the world. And find whatever kind of happiness is still possible. That's about it."

"It's understandable," John said, meeting his eyes. "Still, no offense, Dean, but the world hasn't stopped being evil just because you've decided to stop fighting it."

Dean bristled. He evenly turned the pointed look right back at him. "All right," he said slowly. "I won't take offense."

John didn't drop his gaze. "I'm glad," he said. "Let's have another round before you go."

Dean got to his feet with some irritation and took up the stance John had coached him in again. After a few more parries, John said, "Good job. You learn quickly. If you want, you should go in for further training."

"Why put all this effort into something that's so outdated?" Dean asked, rubbing his shoulder a bit crossly.

"Why study philosophy? Or literature? Or even go to a liberal arts college?" John asked. "You figure it out."

* * *

_Another day. Another wedding._ Thought Dean tiredly as he waited by his car for Renee to get done with saying goodbye to her thousands of friends. This time it was Jimmy and Naomi who had gotten hitched and while Dean was happy for them, he really wanted to go home and crash. It had been a long day. On top of that, he had agreed to give Renee a ride home and right now he was having mixed feelings about it. Finally, he spotted her striding up to him, purse and bouquet in hand.

"All set?" he asked her, taking out his car keys.

"Yes – and no," Renee said, looking longingly over the darkened hillside. "Would you feel up for a walk?"

He studied her, and wondered if it would be wise to say yes.

"Okay," he sighed, and put away his car keys. "Where do you want to walk?"

"Let's go towards the golf course over on the other side of the hall," she suggested. "It's fun to walk on the paths there at night."

Out on the golf course, the moon was rising. Dean listened to the sound of occasional traffic on the country roads, and reflected on how quiet it was out here. Renee kept pace with him, sometimes walking a bit more quickly than he did.

"I wonder how it feels to be a princess who's just gotten married," Renee said at last.

"I'm not sure," he said, unhelpfully, smiling. "I've never been a princess."

"Happiness is such a difficult thing to describe," said Renee, ignoring his last remark. "Maybe that's why fairy tales just end with the old cliché of living happily ever after. It's so much easier to visualize tragedy than happiness."

"True. Or it could be that happiness is just more rare."

Renee pondered and wound a ringlet of hair around her finger as she walked. "There's one kind of happiness that comes from going to a wedding, and, I suspect, a whole other kind that comes from being married."

"The second kind is probably more real," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Love is an ideal thing. Marriage is a real thing." He added, "That's Goethe, by the way."

She considered this. "Do you want to get married?"

"Are you proposing?" he inquired mildly.

"No, silly, of course not," she said quickly, flushing.

"Of course not. No, I don't think I will ever get married."

"Why not?"

He paused. "I'd like to finish my doctorate. I'd rather concentrate on school and get as much done as possible without any distractions."

"A distraction!" Renee scoffed at him. "You sound so – mercenary."

"Just being practical," he said.

There was silence as they walked. At last Renee said, "So what do you want to do after you get your degree?"

"Write. Do research. Teach, if I have to," Dean looked out at the night sky. "Live a quiet life."

"Doesn't sound very exciting," Renee said, apparently disappointed.

"No, but it sounds very appealing to me. I've had more than enough adventures."

"I thought you liked having an adventurous life."

He laughed. "Liked? Well, 'tolerated' would be a better word for it. Yes, it's been exciting at times, but not usually enjoyable. Mostly it's made me older. And it's made me feel different, like an outsider."

"I think you've always felt like an outsider, and you always will, even if you just do nothing but live an average American life," Renee said, seeming put out. "It's just your personality."

"Then my personality's been exacerbated by my experience," he agreed amiably.

"Although I've always considered myself an outsider too," she said at last.

"I'm sure most people do," he granted. "It's part of the human condition."

"Dean, stop it. You're always trying to distance yourself from me."

"Was I? I was just agreeing that you and I are like most people in the human race."

"No, I don't think we are, at all," she said stubbornly.

"Renee, come on," he said, and stopped to look at her. "I think we've had this conversation before, haven't we? I sense that you're trying to categorize yourself with me, in a particular, unique way, aren't you?"

"Well, what if I am?" Renee said, lifting her chin. "It's how I honestly feel."

"Fine. Feel that way. But I think you're wasting your time."

There was silence. He exhaled and wished, for the umpteenth time, that Renee wouldn't put herself through this ordeal time and time again. But a small part of himself, wished that she wouldn't give up on him. After a moment, he said, "Let's go back."

Dean turned around, and she followed him, a bit unwillingly. He waited a moment, and then, having gathered his thoughts, tried to ease her out of the situation. "Renee, I understand how you feel, but let's face it – Given this situation, I think it's foolish of you to keep pinning your hopes on someone who's just going to keep disappointing you."

"You sound so old!" she burst out at last. "Geez, Dean, you're hardly much older than I am!"

He smiled. "But in terms of life experience, Renee, I feel decades older than you are."

"You _always _say that. Well I don't think you are. I see a lot of similarities between us, and you just keep on coming up with all sorts of reasons why those things don't – or can't exist! I think _you're_ fooling yourself." She halted, folded her arms and glared at him.

He swung around to face her. Now he was irritated. "So what do you want me to do? Sweep you into my arms and kiss you?"

Her expression changed. "Would you?" she asked, in a new and different voice.

He covered his face and groaned in exasperation. Finally he said, "Look, Renee. If you ever think that I'd kiss you, tell yourself you're dreaming, because you are."

Dean turned and walked off a few steps, but stopped out of courtesy. She began trailing after him.

"But, Dean, what about you?" she said again, in a voice that was barely a whisper.

"What about me?" he tried to sound good-humored.

"You're lonely, and solitary, and an outsider. I don't want you to be. I want you to be happy."

"Oh, I'm happy enough," Dean said shortly. "Don't think that just because you rescued me you're under an obligation to marry me to make me happy."

"I didn't say that," Renee said defensively.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

She was silent for so long that he looked at her, a bit wary.

"Don't worry about me," he repeated. "I'll be fine. You'll be fine. A pretty girl like you isn't going to have any trouble finding a boyfriend. You'll be in love before you know it."

She turned on him, eyes flashing, and he realized he had said the wrong thing. "Don't trivialize me!" she burst out, then sat down on the grass, hands over her face, and started to cry.

_What the hell_, he thought, hating this entire situation. He waited for a moment, and then squatted down beside her. "Renee, I'm sorry. I was too flippant with you," he said at last.

"I just want you to take me seriously," she said at last, her voice muffled by her hands.

"I do. Or at least, I try to," he said. "I'm just not very good at relating to girls." He exhaled. "See, this is why I keep telling you to stay away from me."

"I know," she sighed, trying to compose herself. "My mom keeps telling me to stay away from you too."

"Well, there you are," he stood up, feeling vaguely uncomfortable about this knowledge. "She's a wise woman. Listen to her." He put out a hand to help her up. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

She stood up, wiping her eyes, and they went on.

But as they passed over a particularly striking rise of ground, with a view of the velvet-grassed hills all silvered by the moonlight, she halted. He waited for her a few steps away, and heard her murmuring to herself, chanting poetry.

"_I hold it true, what e'er befall,_

_I hold it when I sorrow most,_

'_Tis better to have loved and lost,_

_than never to have loved at all."_

She probably assumed that he couldn't hear her, but Tennyson's lines were so familiar to him that he did. After a moment, she came up beside him and gave him a faint smile. He had already decided to pretend that he hadn't heard. Poetry in the moonlight was a dangerous thing.

* * *

A few weeks after that disastrous conversation with Dean, Renee finally allowed a work colleague to set her up with a blind date and, boy, was she regretting that decision.

Dolph, her date for the evening, was a narcissistic jerk with an ego the size of Canada. Within a few minutes of meeting him, Renee was desperately looking for a way out of this date but no opportunity had yet to present itself. The only thing that comforted her throughout the entire dinner was that she was able to secretly text Dean all throughout the meal, informing him periodically of what most recent idiotic thing her date had told her.

Finally, dinner was over and Renee tried to be polite as she thanked Dolph for dinner and began to head to her car.

"Hey! Wait up, girl! Don't you want to head to my place?" asked Dolph not letting her go easily.

"I'm tired," said Renee with a smile and shake of her head. "I need to get some rest before work tomorrow." She turned back towards her car but was stopped again when she felt the man grab her roughly by the wrist.

"Come on, girl. Don't be like that. I paid for dinner," said Dolph invading Renee's personal space as he whispered the last part in her ear.

"Let go of me," insisted Renee as she tried to free her wrist from his grasp. "I'm going home."

"Why are you playing hard to get, Renee?" asked Dolph creepily as he stroked her cheek. "I know you. I see it in your eyes. You want it as much as I do."

"No I don't, know let me…" as she was speaking Renee all of a sudden got her arm free but in surprise that he had finally let go. She fell hard and pain engulfed her head as she smacked it against the concrete. The last thing Renee heard before the darkness took her was Dean's voice yelling at Dolph to get away from her.

* * *

"Get away from her!" shouted Dean as he ran towards the pair in the parking lot, wishing that he had gotten there sooner. From his angle, it looked like Renee had hit her head on the concrete and he was concerned. As Dean put a hand on Dolph's shoulder in order to push the creep away from her, Dolph turned suddenly and threw a roundhouse punch at Dean's face.

Dean stepped to the side while neatly grabbing Dolph by the arm and the back of the skull, giving him a deft twist. Having missed Dean, Dolph was thrown forward by the force of his own punch and landed head over heels onto the stone pavement.

Dolph leapt back on his feet with surprising quickness, his face red. "Someone thinks they're a ninja," Dolph panted.

There was a pause, and then Dolph came forward, a challenging expression on his face, throwing small, rapid punches at Dean without making any contact, daring Dean to respond. Dean retreated sideways, his palms open, his fingers spread out, his eyes fixed on the center of Dolph's body. He was waiting for Dolph to stop feinting and make a real attack.

Then abruptly Dolph leapt forward, his foot darting up at Dean's face. Expecting this, Dean merely stepped backwards, blocking the kick with a quick dab of his hands. Dolph continued to drive forward with incredible energy, swiftly kicking with one leg then the other, while Dean continued to bat the kicks away with his hands and forearms. Dolph made a half-kick at Dean's face, then swiftly bent his knee and kicked Dean in the chest. Surprised, Dean stumbled backwards. Viciously Dolph stepped forward, driving down his leg to stomp on his opponent.

But Dean let himself fall. The next instant, Dolph was on the ground again, his other leg caught between Dean's legs. Dean had redirected the kick and thrown him off balance again.

Dean rolled over and got to his feet neatly.

Dolph got to his feet like a tiger, his eyes flashing, breathing hard. Now he drove forward with a shout, kicking, punching and swinging in a deadly rhythm. But Dean did not retreat. Instead, he stayed close to his opponent, moving around him, tossing Dolph's fast-paced punches and kicks aside as though he were juggling the guy's limbs. Around and around they went, Dolph screaming and throwing punches and kicks, Dean merely sidestepping and tossing away his opponent's punches. Then, all of a sudden, Dean caught one of Dolph's punches at the wrist and elbow and had twisted his arm over.

Now he immobilized his opponent by pressing steadily down on the back of Dolph's elbow, so that Dolph grunted with the sudden pain, unable to move.

Suddenly, Dolph lurched forward, yanked his trapped elbow up and jabbed Dean in the stomach while kicking him in the leg. Dean caught his breath and fell back, stunned and Dolph was free.

With a snarl, Dolph raced forward for the kill.

Seeing him coming, Dean rolled backwards. In a flash, he had caught one of Dolph's arms, put a foot in Dolph's ribs and threw his opponent over his head. Dolph landed flat on his back, his roar turning abruptly into an "oof!"

Both of them were winded, but Dean got to his feet first, a little more slowly than before.

Dolph rolled over, a mixture of rage and bewilderment on his face. Seeing Dean's unprepared stance, he seized the moment. With surprising speed, he was on his feet.

But Dean was not completely caught unawares, although he had no time to block the blow. He barely ducked Dolph's punch, and spun around, his arms swinging. As he twisted past Dolph, one of his arms caught the man squarely in the eye. Dolph fell to the ground like a stone.

Having finally taken care of his opponent, Dean raced to Renee's side who was unresponsive.

"I've called 9-1-1," yelled a bystander at Dean. Dean nodded his head in thanks towards the stranger as he stayed by Renee's side until the ambulance came, willing her to wake up.

* * *

"Renee, please, please wake up." Pleaded Dean for about the hundredth time that night as he stood watch over her hospital bed.

A wave of weariness and near despair came over him and he knelt down on the floor and put his head to the pillow, near her face. Dean sighed and stared at the shadows on the ceiling.

"Why am I bothering to talk to you, Renee? You never listened to me anyway," he said, a bit accusingly. Her unconscious smile seemed to tease him. "I told you countless times to stay away from me – to find someone else – to go on with your life – but I couldn't convince you to stop loving me, could I? At least not for a long time."

He turned back to her, and his eyes traveled over her features again, and without realizing he was doing it, he lifted his hand and ran a finger down the line of her cheekbones.

"The most persistent girl I ever met in my life," he said, with a tinge of exasperation. "But now I'm presuming, Renee. I'm presuming that you still love me. I know I haven't done anything to deserve it, if you still do."

He had to chuckle at his words now. Closing his eyes, he cupped his hand around her face, feeling her cheeks. He made himself go on, even though his voice was catching. "What I do know is that I love you now. Most likely too late. But there it is."

He ran a tentative finger over her mouth, and paused, hoping beyond hope that this would rouse her. Then, licking his lips, he brought them lightly down on hers, and looked at her anxiously. There was still no response. He touched her face again with his finger, and then took a deep breath, and kissed her again.

_Renee_, he thought, _I'm yours. I'm all yours. If you still want me. If I can love you…_

But he realized then, that he could love her, and did love her, and that if he kept choosing to, he would be able to love her, for life.

He raised his face slowly and looked at her once again. Her eyes were still closed, but her expression seemed slightly changed, a bit serious and thoughtful, as though she didn't know what to make of this new development. He touched her face, but she was still oblivious.

"I'm all yours," he said simply, almost by way of explanation for his actions.

She didn't move, but some of the tension inside had been released. A curious effortlessness came over him. Part of him was amazed at how easy it had been, after all this, to admit to himself that he loved Renee. The hedge of thorns had parted smoothly before him. And another part of him was astonished at how, now that he had accepted love, it was doing some of the work for him.

It was at that moment then that Renee's beautiful, brown eyes opened up, smiling back at him. "Was I dreaming?" she asked him quietly.

He put a hand to her face and drew it towards him. He said softly, "Renee, it wasn't a dream."

And then, without a hesitation or a doubt, he moved his lips to hers.

**Thanks for reading this story. Please review to give me your thoughts on this story. I would love to hear it, both good and bad :)**


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